


Picture

by spikewriter



Series: Seven Years in the Desert Extras [17]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 22:11:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2889761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikewriter/pseuds/spikewriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You do remember you're a vampire, don't you?  Sunlight is not exactly healthy."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Picture

**Author's Note:**

> Word of the Day filet set in the Seven Years-verse. This is for a story where Angel comes to London for business and Spike, in a moment of madness, has offered to put his grandsire up at his place. Wackiness ensues. Set about three-four months before the start of the main story. Originally posted on LJ September 23, 2004.

**inkhorn** \INK-horn\, _adjective_ :  
Affectedly or ostentatiously learned; pedantic.

_noun_ :  
A small bottle of horn or other material formerly used for holding ink.

_Inkhorn_ derives from the name for the container formerly used (beginning in the 14th century) for holding ink, originally made from a real horn. Hence it came to refer to words that were being used by learned writers and scholars but which were unknown or rare in ordinary speech.

# # #

Spike didn't turn on the lights when they stepped inside, which meant the view of the river at night was shown to its best advantage. Angel just stood before the wall of glass that lined one side of the living room and stared silently for a long minute. "You're mad."

Point scored. With a grin, Spike turned on the light. "Funny, that's just what Giles said when he saw it."

"You do remember you're a vampire, don't you? Sunlight is not exactly healthy."

"Tinted glass...probably the same mix you had in your office in LA. The nice one, I mean. I don't remember your office at the Hyperion having any windows at all."

"I prefer the Hyperion," Angel said shortly. "And I don't want to talk about Wolfram & Hart."

"Oh, I understand. I feel the same way about Sunnydale."

Yes, the universe had changed; Spike saw it in the way Angel looked at him now. Back in the bad old days, he would have earned a smack -- or worse -- for his insolence. Now, Angel just looked at the river again, shook his head and turned away to take in the rest of the flat. Spike stripped off his jacket and hung it on the coat rack as he waited to see what the next comment would be.

"Nice book case." Angel prowled past the shelves filled with volumes and a few knick knacks, one finger reaching out to trace the spines. "Freshly dusted."

"I have a cleaning lady who comes in. She's a wiz at blood stains."

That earned him an old familiar look, but Angel restrained himself as he continued to move around the living room. It was a sight Spike had seen each time they'd moved into new digs; the place never was acceptable until the big poofter had pronounced it so. Except for those ocassions when Darla had decided she liked the accomodation whether Angelus liked it or not. Then Spike and Dru would move in whatever luggage they had while the other two fought it out -- and Spike's money was always on Darla.

Now it didn't matter whether Angel approved or not, but Spike couldn't help a twinge of curiosity mixed with trepidation as he awaited the verdict; old habits died hard, even if he didn't want to admit it.

Angel didn't speak until he'd made almost a complete circuit of the room, pausing at the writing desk that stood along one wall. Save for the laptop which stood in the center of the surface, it might have been inhabited by a Victorian gentleman, complete with paper, pens and inkhorn. "Nice piece."

"Anya found it for me." Spike reached out to trace the carving that ran along the edge, fingers finding the small chip just as he always had. "I couldn't believe the luck."

Angel grunted, his attention turning to the pictures that hung on the wall above the desk, slices of Spike's life in London. Giles and Anya were there, of course, as was a shot of Kenneth and Lydia on their wedding day with Spike among the groomsmen. Other friends, a picture of Spike at Cambridge in an academic gown thrown over his usual garb of black t-shirt and jeans, grinning at the camera. Standing with Dawn in front of the Christmas tree at Revello Drive the one year he and Buffy were together.

None of that was what drew Angel's attention. Instead it was the small black and white that hung low over the desk. "Where did you find this?"

"Paris. I was there on business and I discovered the studio still existed. I told them I was looking for a photo of my great-great-grandfather. They were more than happy to go through their archives for a fee."

Angel leaned in closer, eyes fixed on the image of two men and two women in dress of the late nineteenth century. The quartet was smiling and confident, cocky in their attitude as if the world was completely at their disposal. "I can't understand why you'd want this."

The words caused Spike to smile as he looked at picture of himself, Angel, Darla and Drusilla. "Because it's part of who I am."


End file.
